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The Lock Without A Key

"Anthony, are you there, my son?"

Anthony looks up from the contemplations he tumbles about in his hands, around the dull, silver lock without a key.

His father stands before him, and absently stares about.

Anthony sits on the attic floor, beside the trunk, and looks to his father's upcast eyes. The attic is Anthony's favorite place to visit. So quiet and full of lonely, strange cool airs, though occasionally blanketed in a mystery of warm breeze. An unexplainable phenomena, like the lock without a key.

His father stands silent, searching for heavens within the ceiling. The warm breeze stirs from the old trunk, as if trying to speak. It cannot, though, seem to ever escape the wooden barriers.

The trunk, Anthony knows, holds the secrets. Yet the dull, silver lock enslaving it, is without a key.

His father looks at the trunk.

A simple, beautiful trunk. A trunk locked for generations by a dull piece of metal. Tarnished and ugly and sullen by rust, stubborn from disuse. Still though, hints of warm breezes sometimes slip through, between the cracks.

Anthony watches his father stare aside him, at that locked trunk. The warm breeze is lost again, dissipated. The cool air returns.

Anthony contemplates what it would be like for his own son to sit next to the trunk, hoping and waiting for the warm memories to slip through.

Would there ever be a key for that dull, silver lock?

His father turns away.

"Yes, father," Anthony answers, "and I am coming to meet you."

Story by:

Eric J. Guignard

eric.guignard@gmail.com

submitted at 12:40am

26 January 2012

Eric J. Guignard's web:

ericjguignard.com/contact.html